Well the blues, give me your write hand.

Old School Blues for the 21st Century…

“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.”Friedrich Nietzsche

Half Deaf Clatch; aka Andrew McLatchie, aka Beelzebub Jones, aka Son of Dirt (hereon referred to as ‘Clatch’) is a 40-something musician from Hull (for non-UK readers, that’s a city in East Yorkshire in the north of England).

Listed no less than eleven times as a finalist in the British Blues Awards, and finalist in the UK Blues Awards 2018 and 2020; Clatch is a familiar figure on the UK Indie Blues circuit, and mainstay of many festivals, where his unique blend of foot-stomping percussion, howling slide guitar and a voice like a dead body being dragged across gravel has attracted a legion of followers across the planet.

Clatch got his first guitar for his 13th birthday, igniting his passion to create and perform music.

“I think I’ve been in around fifteen bands in my time, but it could be more than that. At one point I was in three bands at the same time <laughs>…”

“I played bass, but I wouldn’t call myself a bassist, and I can play drums to a moderately proficient level, good enough to be the drummer in a band for a couple of years…”

Since he went solo in 2010, Clatch has amassed a musical repertoire that reflects the many facets of his interests; from the writings of Poe and H.P Lovecraft, the music of the old blues legends and cinematic artistry of Sergio Leone, his catalogue encompasses traditional slide blues, dark musical theatre, gothic Americana, metaphysical wonderings, and even a trio of supernatural spaghetti-western concept albums.

Clatch’s latest album, Every Path Leads Here, to be released on May 11th is a deeply personal musical documentary of events leading up to his encounter with his own mortality a decade ago, the recovery from which triggered his solo career.

Publicly, Clatch remains tight-lipped about the circumstances that brought him to the edge of his personal abyss, preferring instead to speak through his music. In private, during the times I spoke with him to prepare for this review, he allowed me just enough information to give context to the album.

Suffice it to say, the reality is grim and the details don’t make comfortable reading. But the clues are there.

At this point, it would be all too easy to roll out the predictable, blues-cliché analogy of ‘arriving at a crossroads.’ In Clatch’s fable, the only deal to be done was the one that he made with himself.

Taking the positives from a harrowing situation, Clatch set about realigning his future.

“…May 11th 2010 was the start of my new life. I was lost at first; I went back to work, I started playing guitar in the band again, everyone was really supportive, but I knew there was something missing…”

“I decided I would teach myself something new.I was really into acoustic blues, but none of the bands I was in were blues or blues-based in the slightest, so I taught myself a bit of slide guitar and wrote some songs. In December 2010 a promoter friend bullied me into doing a solo show for him, he billed me as ‘Half Deaf Clatch‘ which was actually my MySpace username at the time, I enjoyed doing the gig just enough to want to continue and do a few more, and the rest is history…”

“And then in June 2014 the Fire Service decided to make my job as a cook obsolete, so I took voluntary redundancy instead of retraining and working in an office. To be honest if my job was still there, I wouldn’t have left, I just made the best decision for myself out of a bad situation. I didn’t leave a job to follow my dream of being destitute, it just sort of happened…”

This forced change of circumstance enabled Clatch to devote all of his time to making music, and also to explore other avenues of creativity.

When Clatch releases a new album it’s a masterclass in marketing and merchandising. Elaborate andimaginative videos precede Limited Edition packs, and finally links to ‘name-your-price’ downloads on his Bandcamp site. Everything created with such attention to detail and artistic quality that you wonder how he ever makes any money.

But this comes as no surprise to anyone who knows how Clatch works.

Having collaborated with Clatch on the Beelzebub Jones project, I know how much of himself he puts into every aspect of every piece of work. Nothing is ever as it first seems – everything he creates alludes to deeper, hidden meanings as he taps the rich seam of his dark imagination and turbulent life-history for inspiration.

Onstage, Clatch-the-performer is a force of nature, delivering consistently at each show a howling maelstrom of stomp, slide and holler, as if channelling juke-joint artists and carny barkers of yesteryear.

Offstage, he is a quiet, deep-thinker who lives a solitary life, the antithesis of his showman persona.

This paradox bleeds into his music. Behind the pomp and swagger of thumping stomp-board, banshee slide and that raucous voice you will often find fingerstyle pieces picked out on acoustic guitar, offsetting the ‘sturm und drang’ of the ‘Clatch sound’ with intricate, delicate and often quite beautiful melodies.

This juxtaposition of musical styles, perhaps symbolising the artistic sensitivity that lies behind even the loudest of performances, is a motif that weaves its way throughout all of his albums, but especially in Every Path Leads Here, where it adds an extra layer of poignancy to the backstory.

So, to the music:

“It’s been a difficult album to write. I’m hoping people get something out of it. At the end of the day I wrote it for myself, it’s been cathartic… The songs for the most part are either metaphorical or describe parts of the hallucinations/dreams that I had, but there are more literal songs on there too…”

Track 1 – A Change in the Season

“Sunlight’s melting away, just like the days, just like the days, Colours fade, skies turn to grey, all life decays, all life decays…”

A sinister minor chord acoustic arpeggio, a wailing slide guitar and a horror-movie organ riff set the mood for the first minute-and-change of the album, building tension and then resolving with the trademark Clatch stomp and growl over a pretty finger-picking melody that weaves itself through a brooding song that reflects the relentless march of time and, perhaps, one’s place within the cycle.

The archetypal ‘ain’t got no money,’ blues theme, written and performed in the finest blues tradition with an ironic upbeat slide and crowd-pleasing stomp that puts a brave face on a life lived from paycheck to paycheck without ever catching a break. Written in 2020, but would sound just as authentic on a scratchy 78’ played through the horn speaker of a wind-up Victrola gramophone in a shotgun shack in 1930s Mississippi.

“Born Under a Bad Sign” for modern times

Track 3 – Soul Searching

“Don’t talk to me ’bout salvation,I ain’t got a great deal to save,And I give into temptation everyday…”

“I was playing the chord progression and just humming along, then sang the line “Tell me, what good’s the soul of a man,” and I thought, ‘hmmmm that’s a little too close to Blind Willie Johnson,’ but then I thought, ‘people have done a lot worse to old songs.’ It was accidentally on purpose I suppose…”

“It’s an homage to, rather than a version of. An extension of the original question. I think it’s better to have ‘touch stones’ to the classics of the genre rather than out-and-out cover versions, carrying on a tradition without plagiarising the Hell out of everything. If finding out my song is in some way inspired by Blind Willie gets someone into his music, then mission accomplished in my book…”

If ‘The Soul of a Man’ is a spiritual repetition of the age-old question by a deeply religious musician, ‘Soul Searching’ is the anguished beseeching of a mind in torment.

Opening with a sparse, repetitive cry to the heavens, Clatch’s trademark growl drips with despair, piling on layer upon layer of tension for a full two and a half minutes until resolution, in the form of a menacing alternating thumb-picked bass line that precedes a heart-breaking slide riff delivered to thumping stomp-box percussion.

This in itself would be enough to make the song magnificent, but amidst all of this Clatch takes composition to another level with a delicate, understated fingerstyle melody that complements the raucousness of the slide riff so perfectly that it becomes one of the most beautiful and heart-breaking guitar pieces that I have ever heard. Ever.

Blind Willie Johnson meets Mississippi John Hurt, directed by Sergio Leone. Bleak, dark, heart-rending and powerful. Soul Searching is probably, in this reviewer’s opinion, the best song Clatch has ever written.

“Is it all inside my head,Or is it reality?Dissonant, discordant dirge,Oh, reaching out to me…”

A change of pace in this upbeat and catchy tune that belies the darkness of the subject matter (earworms from hell), but also showcases Clatch’s talent for lyricism, as an alliterative description of a song, “Dissonant, discordant dirge” deserves a round of applause.

“So I’ll sing these songs of woeTake a journey deep within my soulFrom this life I have to goWhere the path it takes me, well I don’t really know…”

Another gear change in this haunting and beautiful song about social anxiety and the need to escape from the madness and chaos of modern living – by any means possible. Once again intricate guitar patterns complement aching slide guitar to deliver perfectly the pain written between the lines of Clatch’s words.

Track 6 – A Web Across The Heavens

“High on top, the mountain’s peak,I can see all of creation,So many people lost like me,Trapped by a web across the heavens…”

Inspired by a recurring fever-induced vision. Brooding, Ry Cooder-esque slide guitar permeates this dark visionary tale that has more than a nod to Poe’s ‘Dream Within a Dream’.

Track 7 – These Weary Bones

“It’s in my veins,Coursing through every part of me, Take away the pain,Drinking more and more,To help me survive the days…”

A sea-change in the album, the performer overshadowed by the troubled artist within, battered with the exhaustion of the daily struggle to cope with the bright lights and bedlam. Art reflects reality as, from this point on, the music becomes understated, almost incidental as the lyrical pain starts to bubble to the surface.

Track 8 – On Through the Woods

“Senses working overtime,Desperation’s now a friend of mine,Carve my name into the bark of a tree,Hoping someone will remember me,Oh, please remember me…”

A simple, reflective acoustic riff trickles like a winter stream in the background as Clatch stumbles through metaphorical woods. Symbolising life and time, the human need to make one’s mark on the world and the crippling self-doubt that no one will care.

“Oh, please remember me,” the heartrending plea of someone who knows their time is near.

Track 9 – The Endless River

“Navigate the endless river, Been away too long,I’m going home…”

Out of the woods we arrive at the bank of the Endless River. Clatch’s metaphor for everything in life that threatens to pull you under, and his struggle to overcome it. A couple of lines nod reverentially to Mississippi Fred McDowell in a song that’s awash (no pun intended) with blues / biblical themes of baptism and washing away old habits and starting anew.

Providing you make it to the other side, of course.

The track begins slowly, quietly, acoustic melody to the backdrop of water lapping at the riverbank. The calm before the storm, as the music builds and builds, the singing becomes staccato, repetitive, Clatch almost gasping for air as he fights the rip-tides, currents and undertows of life that threaten to drag him under for the third time.

Track 10 – Black and Blue

“Shaking every day, ain’t no goddamn way,To live life right, to live life right,If you’re feeling low, the bottle ain’t the way to go, Take your life back, take your life back…”

“The hardest song I’ve ever written from an emotional point of view, and extremely difficult to sing. If you listen closely you can hear my voice crack with emotion a couple of times, I did another take after that but it didn’t have the same feeling to it, so I used the first take, although it’s not perfect it conveyed the emotion much, much better…”

My novel, Fat Man Blues (available at an Amazon near you), is a work of fiction set in 1930s Mississippi.

This classifies it as Historical Fiction, which is handy because the aim of this post is to invite y’all to take part an internet Scavenger Hunt, at the end of which one lucky winner will walk away with 12 historical fiction novels set in the 1910s, 1920s and 1930s.

All this excitement takes place on Sunday 17th March 2019.

If you’re a fan of historic fiction (and lets face it, all the best people are) then you’ll get the opportunity to discover new authors, new stories and to meet and talk to other readers who love this time period, not to mention the opportunity to win the grand prize which includes a digital copy of a novel from each of the 12 authors participating in the hunt.

That’s 12 novels.

12 novels to be had for the price of half an hour spent bouncing around the internet.

As the doctor said to the man who lost his tongue, his bottom lip and all of his teeth, “You can’t say fairer than that…“

It could be you, but you gotta be in it to win it. Innit?

Head over HERE to see how you can play the hunt. It’s quite easy, so I’m told.

Abyssinia, the latest album from Worcestershire musician, Gary Tolley, AKA Garrington T Jones, AKA Gazza Tee, is a collection of nine original songs, one cover and one with a guest singer, masterfully put together to present a compendium of blues, rock, country and new-wave tunes.
Taken individually, each song is good enough to stand on its own merits. Collectively, they sit together to form an album that defies any attempt to force it into a genre pigeon-hole. As you journey through the album it becomes apparent that many of the songs reflect and are inspired by Garrington T Jones’ ongoing love affair with Australia, her landscape, people and culture.

The Songs:

Road Cases – Inspired by a conversation with an extremely well-read roadie in a bar in Cairns, Australia, Road Cases gives us the thoughts of a rock and roll backstage hero travelling between shows, and opens with a suitably rock and roll count down to a foot-tapping drum beat and catchy guitar riff. Mr Jones tells this tale with a mellow, assured voice that reminds this reviewer of 70’s crooner, Mat Monro. This is a good thing.

I Once Had a Girl – The tempo continues with this retrospective love song, a sparky, upbeat tune in the manner of 80’s New Wave Aussie band ‘Men at Work’.
Indian Summer – Mr Jones’ cover of a popular song by 70’s English Art Rock band ‘Audience’. A fabulous rendition of “a fabulous song of hope for those seeking love in the later years of life.”

Chasing Feathers – This catchy instrumental, inspired by two kittens gambolling outside for the first time, has a feel of something you might find on an early Joe Walsh album.
Time – A beautiful, thoughtful song co-written with, and sung by Laura Smith. Time flows like a lazy river on a summer evening and makes you feel better for having listened to it. One of the high points of the album.

Blue Car Blues – Another album high point is Tone Tanner’s Hendrix-esque guitar intro to this barmy 12-bar blues about a Nissan Almera SUV. No attempt at a written description will ever do this song justice. You HAVE to hear it to appreciate it.

Drivin’ Home With The Blues – More Antipodean inspiration with this ode to “Drivin’ Home With The Blues‘ a weekly radio show from Cairns, Queensland, Australia hosted superbly by Irene R. Barrett. A foot-tapping gem that captures that early Friday Night Feeling.

Dust Pneumonia Blues – Anyone who covers a Woodie Guthrie song is alright by me. And Garrington’s version of Dust Pneumonia Blues is a rip-roaring, barnstormer of a tune.

Ain’t Workin’ No More – A lazy, wistful 12-bar blues about stepping out of the rat race and the joy of no longer having to work for “the man”.

Ride – The intro sound effect of a Harley Davidson at full chat sets the tone for this high-octane journey on two wheels along the Great Barrier Reef Drive. Marvellous.

Jacaranda Blue – The perfect final song for any album is one that leaves the listener feeling good, and inspires them to play the album again, and again. This is the perfect final song, and in my opinion the masterpiece of the album. Garrington T Jones’ voice soars over a subtle music arrangement that somehow finds its way into the soul of the listener (any listener with a soul, that is).

Abyssinia is a unique album, which grows in magnitude each time you listen to it

Talking Backwoods by Scott Wainwright, is one of the most unique and original albums that I’ve heard for a long time. I first became aware of it via a recommendation by Andrew (Half Deaf Clatch) McLatchie – a friend and musician with a growing reputation for his own unique music creations.

With such an endorsement I felt I couldn’t go wrong, so I bought it. And I’m glad that I did! The album is listed on iTunes as ‘blues’, and for the first minute or so, I thought I was in familiar territory as the first track ‘Remember the Zoo’ opened with an Old School, trance-inducing, foot-tappin’, ragtime finger picking tune that brought a smile to my face.

And then, at just after a minute, the synthesiser kicks in. Yep, that’s right. A synthesiser. Beginning with an ominous low-frequency throbbing in the background as a counterpoint to the fingerpicking melody, joined soon after by a playful higher frequency, whistling and whooping through the tune without a care in the world.

“This is different,” I thought.

Different is good.

Track two is Backwoods Progress Blues, and this begins with a sound effect that provides echoes of Pink Floyd (no pun intended), sounding very much like the intro to ‘Wish You Were Here’. The track comprises a dirty blues harp riff to a foot-stomping backbeat, and once again enhanced by the addition of electronica and further sound effects.

Track three, Refuge of Hope, is a mellow, so-chilled-it’s-frosty, introspective guitar-based composition that showcases the skill and virtuosity of Mr Wainwright.

Track four is Delta Surfin’, which opens with Early Floyd-esque effects dancing back and forth between speakers/headphones, followed by a prelude of flamenco guitar leading into a meaty resonator-sounding riff of slides and arpeggios to a backdrop of synthesisers and ending with a delicious one-fret slide.

Track five, Eleanor’s Dance, is a folky, fingerstyle guitar rag in the manner of Mississippi John Hurt, and, as with the previous tracks, enhanced by the addition of synthesisers which take the frivolity of the tune, albeit briefly, to a darker place. When the track ended, I replayed it because the final half-minute or so had made me re-evaluate the whole tune, and in fact the whole album (I write this after countless play-throughs, but more of that later.

Track six, Better Days, my favourite of the album, is a rollicking jam session of a tune, of the kind that occurs when a group of talented musicians get together and collectively get into “the zone”. Better Days made me smile from the outset and twist the volume button up to ‘11’. This happens each time I listen to it. Oh, and by the way, if you want to hear musical perfection, it occurs precisely at 1:42, just after the bass riff.

Track seven is another contemplative tune called Before the Battle, After the War, and as the name suggests it’s a tune of two halves. Lazy slide riffs alongside an acoustic rhythm guitar to the backdrop of birdsong lulls the listener into a false sense of serenity and then jolts them awake with a change of pace and instruments that ends abruptly before you realise what’s happened. In my opinion, an understated work of unsettling genius.

Eight is ‘Mellow Rag’, a track that in my mind is mash-up of the sound of the old Memphis Jug Bands of the 1920s, and the first Gomez album in 1998. Once again, very subtle.

‘Dolly Johnson’ is track nine, and this is a delightful little ditty that wouldn’t be out of place being performed on the front porch of a shack in the Appalachian Mountains, complete with clog dancer. Marvellous stuff.

Track ten is ‘The Distance Between Us’, a reflective Spanish Guitar-themed piece that drips with the angst and emotion that the title hints at. Heartbreaking.

Eleven is ‘Leo’s Greenhouse’, another foot-tapper similar in theme to ‘Remember the Zoo’ and full of synth, drum machine and hand-clapping goodness.

At the end is ‘At The End’, a playful tune that maintains the quality and virtuosity of the tracks preceding and ends the album on a high note.

Any instrumental piece that makes you stop and think about its very meaning is a very rare beast. Scott Wainwright has created and entire album of such pieces and in doing so has taken the blues into new territory by adding electronica which gives a mellow trance vibe.

Trilby-bedecked blues purists will hate it. The sour-faced blues police, by that I mean those who sneer at anyone who didn’t meet Blind Lemon Pegleg in 1967, will also hate it. That’s a good thing because it will get people talking, and the more people that talk about the blues, the more the blues will be kept fresh. Furthermore, I think if the likes of Blind Blake and Mississippi John Hurt were alive today, this is what they would be playing.

This marriage of blues and electronica, in a collection of instrumentals, is a bold move. But I think it’s paid off. I think Talking Backwoods is a masterpiece, and exactly the direction that blues need to travel.

Blues purists (alright, anoraks) will no doubt recognise the title as a line from High Water Everywhere Pt 1, by Charley Patton. A song which provides a tenuous link to my efforts in 2016 to market my novel, Fat Man Blues , and to record the kindness of strangers (and friends old and new that I have encountered both at home and abroad).

I live near the Malvern Hills in Worcestershire. It may not have quite the blues heritage of North Mississippi (the place Mr Patton sang about), but blues parallels exist nonetheless.

When Charley Patton sang of “High Water Everywhere”, he was referring directly to the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927. Here in Worcestershire, we’re no strangers to High Water, ask anyone who lives anywhere near the rivers Severn or Teme.

Upton upon Severn, for example, is a small village a few miles from Malvern, which floods with depressing regularity.

Upton also hosts an annual Blues Festival, which has grown from a small event in a couple of pubs into a festival that swamps the town with many thousands of music fans, two main stages, an acoustic stage, and ten pub venues creating over 100 performances in three days.

Last year, I was there hawking my wares and meeting great bunch of people, including local musician and self-described ‘One man kick ass band’, Tone Tanner . Check him out!

Upton Blues Festival 2016 – the guy behind me is Tone Tanner

Ever since Fat Man Blues came out in paperback, my agent, Kizzy Thomson and I have been collaborating to tout it relentlessly, and we have been surprised to receive help from some unexpected quarters.

Jennifer Sinquefield, who lives just outside the Mississippi Delta, contacted me to tell me how much she enjoyed reading Fat Man Blues. This in itself was a kind gesture, but Jennifer took it several steps further by photographing her copy of the book at blues sites and blues icons across the Delta:

Out On Highway 61

Blues Museum at Tunica, MS.

On Hallowed Ground. Holly Ridge, MS

For a blues nut like me, these pictures are amazing and I’m eternally grateful to Jennifer for taking the time to create them. They also belong to Jennifer, so please be nice and ask permission if you want to use them.

Not only that, the Delta Blues Museum in Clarksdale, Mississippi, now have Fat Man Blues adorning the bookshelves of their gift shop.

I’m extraordinarily proud of this. Visiting the blues museum has long been on my bucket list. Clarksdale is where the idea for Fat Man was “born” and it means a lot to me that my novel can be found in the heart of the Mississippi Delta, alongside books written by such eminent blues historians as Alan Lomax, Ted Gioia and Peter Guralnick. Huge thanks to Richard Crisman for making this happen.

Fat Man has arrived.

If that wasn’t enough, I was approached by a lady from Las Vegas called Rita King, who told me that she loved my book. These kind words in themselves were great to hear, but imagine my excitement when I realised that Rita is the daughter of blues legend B.B. King!

Rita King, daughter of a legend

I’ve also experienced similar acts of kindness closer to home in my own “hilly country”.

Malvern has a rich seam of writing talent and literary history. Malvern Writers’ Circle (of which I am proud to be a member) has been in existence since 1948, boasts a wealth of authors far more talented than I, and was once visited by J.B. Priestley. Also, one Peter Mark Roget (he of the thesaurus) is buried, entombed, interred, inhumed, covered and hidden in West Malvern.

In a tiny side street, just off Abbey Road, is Hunky Dorey , a cool little shop selling all manner of clothing, arty gifts and eclectic treasures. To celebrate their first anniversary of trading they held an open evening, and owners Sue Street and Anne Tompkins very kindly invited me to bring along a few copies and hold a book signing event.

The calm before the…

This was great fun, and I met some very friendly and interesting people. Among the first to walk in were three ex-pat Brits based in Tenerife, one of whom said he used to play in several blues bands and knew Rory Gallagher – he bought three signed copies, so I believed him.

Hunky Dorey are now selling copies of Fat Man Blues, as are the Malvern Book Cooperative, a thriving little book shop in St. Anns Road, who are especially keen to promote the work of local authors like me.

If you ever visit Malvern, please search out these fine establishments, you won’t be disappointed.

I would like to thank once again, everyone who has helped me so far in the project that is Fat Man Blues. To meet so many people at home and abroad with such generosity of spirit, gives me hope and restores my faith in human nature.

Mississippi and Malvern. 4000 miles apart, and yet closer than you think.

At long last, my debut novel has finally hit the streets (of Amazon) and is now available on a Kindle near you. A chance remark at the end of a beer-fuelled evening in Clarksdale in February 2012 has resulted in Fat Man Blues – the story of Hobo John, a white blues enthusiast from England, who meets the mysterious Fat Man in bar in present day Clarksdale, Mississippi.

Fat Man offers Hobo John the chance to travel the Mississippi delta at the time of the “real” blues of the 1930s – the time when Charley Patton, Robert Johnson et al were the One Direction of their time. For Hobo John, this is an offer he really can’t refuse and along the way he gets to listen to and play the music he loves in the land that he has always dreamed of visiting. However, he soon encounters to the harsh reality of life in the delta and the horrific consequences of the deal he has made.

Writing this has been a labour of love. Love for scratchy old blues music and the history of the blues singers who ultimately helped change the face of popular music, made a lot of (mostly white) people very rich but earned very little for their efforts, often living forgotten, impoverished lives and dying in squalor.

If you’re reading this and don’t know the first thing about Mississippi Delta Blues, then I recommend (nay, urge) you to research the music. Fat Man Blues contains references to a whole bunch of songs and artists, some of which are listed below.

Tommy Johnson was (in my opinion) a rather underrated singer, who lived in the shadow of his namesake but produced some rather splendid music. Canned Heat refers to Sterno, a fuel made from denatured and jellied alcohol and burned directly from its can. During prohibition, the alcohol would be squeezed through cloth and mixed with fruit juice or drunk neat.

This tune is from the Mississippi Hill Country and has a different musical sound to traditional Delta blues. This is a tune I’ve been trying to master, and played right it has a hypnotic, almost trance-inducing sound.

“I’m going’ away, to a world unknown, you know I’m worried now, but I won’t be worried long…” Listen carefully and you’ll hear Mr Patton slapping his guitar as he’s playing. I never get tired of hearing this.

Ridin’ with the Fat Man

Finally, a friend of mine, Mr Andy Peters has written and recorded a song in celebration of Fat Man Blues. Not only that, he’s also created this video. For once, I’m speechless. Thanks Andy.

Day 3 of NaPoWriMo and it’s back to the blues with these two poems: The first one (which I wrote today) is inspired by memories of Clarksdale and the monument to the legend of Robert Johnson making a deal at a crossroads. Whether you believe it or not, it’s a definitive blues story that I think is let down a little by what has been erected at the intersection of Highways 61 and 49.

Only my opinion of course 🙂

Down at the Crossroads

(R. Wall)

I pilgrimmed to the Delta To mark 50 summers passedAnd wandered through the cotton landImagining the past

I searched for myth and folkloreOf pacts and midnight dealsI found the blues in ClarksdaleThe truth, to me, revealed

I stopped on Highway 61Where it crosses ’49I saw the devil in the detailAs I stood beneath the sign

‘The CROSSROADS’ Screams the bannerCartoon axes painted blueSomeone traded in their soul, it’s saidLooks like that might be true

Here’s one I made earlier:

In 2003, I began a poem that attracted the attention of a German blues singer, Werner Lindner, who turned it into a song and recorded a demo version:

I Never Knew

(R. Wall)

I never met a race horseI didn’t want to backI never had a job Where I didn’t get the sackI never played a card gameI knew I wouldn’t loseI never knew a timeThat I couldn’t play the blues

I’m living me a lifeWhere it seems I’m born to loseSometimes it feels Just like I’m walkingIn someone else’s shoesIt’s something deep inside meI know I’ll never loseI never knew a time That I couldn’t play the blues

I never knew a timeWhere I wouldn’t start a fightI never found a barWhere I wouldn’t drink all nightI never met a drinkThat I knew I could refuseI never knew a timeThat I couldn’t play the blues

I never knew a timeThat I didn’t have a worryI never met a townI didn’t leave in a hurryI never found a wrong pathI knew I wouldn’t chooseI never knew a timeThat I didn’t have the blues

Today’s poem was inspired by Andrew Peters, a fellow blues fan, occasional sparring partner on Twitter and general antidote to social media. Andy is the author of a series of novels featuring the “Blues Detective” – a Welsh private investigator living in Memphis – and other works including my personal favourite, “Joe Soap”.

It’s a little-known fact that I am, in fact, a professional poet with poems seen in print in such august publications as Woman’s Weekly (who paid me £10) to The Daily Mail (who didn’t). I have written several poems and also performed a few times at Ledbury Poetry Festival.

As impressive as these credentials are, poetry for me has always taken second place to writing ‘proper’ stories and so I’ve never really taken them seriously – which is probably a good thing.

My interest in verse ranges from the WW1 poets to WH Auden to Spike Milligan, all of whom have influenced me in one way or another. Influenced being a very loose term.

Anyway, I only heard about NaPoWriMo the other day and the challenge of writing 30 poems in 30 days intrigued me, so I thought I’d give it a go.

In addition to (hopefully) creating new verse I will also post previous poetic offerings that I have dredged up from memory – I hope you like them.

All the poems that appear on this site belong to me, so please play nicely.

So, without further ado, my very first NaPoWriMo offering is in the form of that ubiquitous fallback option for every Secondary School English Teacher – The Haiku

Poetry Challenge

NaPoWriMo

Thirty Poems, Thirty Days

Will I Make The Grade?

This is a monologue that I wrote in 2004. It began as an idea for an attempt to write nonsense verse, but soon developed a darker side:

Thomas Green the Submarine
By Richard Wall

A troubled lad named Thomas Green,Claimed to be a submarine.His father said, “Son, don’t be daft,to be an underwater craft,You must be steel, not flesh and blood.Submerged, you’ll not do very good,How long d’you think you’ll hold your breath?The water’s cold, you’ll catch your death.Come on Thomas, eat your tea,Let’s speak no more of the undersea.”

Tom listened to his father scoff,Refused to let it put him off.He eyed his dad with naked scorn,And then declared, “We dive at dawn!”The cheeky lad was sent to bed,and when he’d gone his father said,“A submarine? The thought’s absurd.That boy’s not right, you mark my words.”His mother sighed, “Oh leave him be.It’s just a phase, you wait and see.”

Next day they went to wake their son,But found that Thomas Green had gone.Police were called, the search commenced,To find the lad their vowed intent.They searched for days to no avail.His tear-stained folks, distraught and pale,pleaded for his safe return,but mum and dad would later learn,that while they cried on live TV,Thomas Green had put to sea.

The first event to get them thinking,Was hearing of the ferry sinking.“Mystery Blast!” the newsreader said.“We don’t know yet how many’s dead.And this just in! I’ll hand you over,To our man, who’s down in Dover.”The news reporter, a handsome hunk,Cried out, “Another ship’s been sunk!The navy’s on their way with divers,To see if they can find survivors.”

It didn’t stop there and on live TV,Tom carried out a wolf pack spree.Two more ships sank ‘neath the waves,Creating two more watery graves.As they stared at the telly screen,Shell-shocked, Mr and Mrs Green,Put together two and two,And said, “Looks like we’re in the poo.They’ll think our standards must be slipping,If our son’s sinking merchant shipping.”

The Royal Navy arrived on scene,And began the hunt for Thomas Green,But Thomas, without fear or barrier,Sank their brand new aircraft carrier.The captain yelled, “All hands on deck!”Mr Green yelled, “Flippin’ ‘eck!This has gone beyond a joke,They’ll not like that, those navy folk.”And he was right, they weren’t impressed,To lose a ship, their Sunday best.

The navy said, “Enough’s enough.”The gloves came off, they acted tough.A frigate with a huge depth chargeArrived on scene and gave it large,Stirring up a huge maelstrom,In the search for U-Boat Tom.The explosion made the water boil,Then came the tell-tale slick of oil.Then all was quiet on the briny scene.Was this the end of Thomas Green?

A few months on, the fuss died down.The Greens moved to another town,Of their son they heard not a thing,Until one day the doorbell ring.A parcel in the letter flap,A puzzled Mr Green unwrapped,And there, inside a plastic bag,A Jolly Roger pirate flag.Somewhere at sea on a secret mission,Submarine Tom is no longer missing.